He with a smile did then his words repeat; And said, that, gathering Leeches, far and wide He travelled; stirring thus about his feet The waters of the Pools where they abide. "Once I could meet with them on every side; But they have dwindled long by slow decay; Yet still I persevere, and find them where I may.”
While he was talking thus, the lonely place,
The Old-man's shape, and speech, all troubled me: In my mind's eye I seemed to see him pace About the weary moors continually,
Wandering about alone and silently.
While I these thoughts within myself pursued, He, having made a pause, the same discourse renewed.
And soon with this he other matter blended, Cheerfully uttered, with demeanour kind, But stately in the main; and when he ended, I could have laughed myself to scorn to find In that decrepit Man so firm a mind. "God," said I, "be my help and stay secure ;
I'll think of the Leech-gatherer on the lonely moor!"
"THESE Tourists, Heaven preserve us! needs must live A profitable life: some glance along, Rapid and gay, as if the earth were air, And they were butterflies to wheel about Long as the summer lasted : some, as wise, Perched on the forehead of a jutting crag, Pencil in hand and book upon the knee, Will look and scribble, scribble on and look, Until a man might travel twelve stout miles, Or reap an acre of his neighbour's corn. But, for that moping Son of Idleness,
Why can he tarry yonder ?—In our churchyard Is neither epitaph nor monument,
Tombstone nor name-only the turf we tread And a few natural graves.' To Jane, his wife, Thus spake the homely Priest of Ennerdale. It was a July evening; and he sate
Upon the long stone-seat beneath the eaves Of his old cottage,- -as it chanced, that day, Employed in winter's work. Upon the stone His Wife sate near him, teasing matted wool, While, from the twin cards toothed with glittering wire, He fed the spindle of his youngest Child,
Who turned her large round wheel in the open air With back and forward steps. Towards the field In which the Parish Chapel stood alone,
1 This Poem was intended to conclude a series of pastorals, the scene of which was laid among the mountains of Cumberland and Westmoreland. I mention this to apologise for the abruptness with which the poem begins.
Girt round with a bare ring of mossy wall, While half an hour went by, the Priest had sent Many a long look of wonder: and at last, Risen from his seat beside the snow-white ridge Of carded wool which the old man had piled He laid his implements with gentle care, Each in the other locked; and, down the path That from his cottage to the churchyard led, He took his way, impatient to accost The Stranger, whom he saw still lingering there.
'Twas one well known to him in former days, A Shepherd-lad ;—who ere his sixteenth year Had left that calling, tempted to entrust His expectations to the fickle winds
And perilous waters, -with the mariners
A fellow mariner,—and so had fared
Through twenty seasons; but he had been reared Among the mountains, and he in his heart Was half a Shepherd on the stormy seas.
Oft in the piping shrouds had Leonard heard
The tones of waterfalls, and inland sounds
Of caves and trees :-and, when the regular wind
Between the tropics filled the steady sail,
And blew with the same breath through days and weeks,
Lengthening invisibly its weary line
Along the cloudless Main, he, in those hours
Of tiresome indolence, would often hang
Over the vessel's side, and gaze and gaze;
And, while the broad green wave and sparkling foam Flashed round him images and hues that wrought
In union with the employment of his heart, He, thus by feverish passion overcome, Even with the organs of his bodily eye, Below him, in the bosom of the deep,
Saw mountains,- -saw the forms of sheep that grazed On verdant hills-with dwellings among trees,
And shepherds clad in the same country gray
Which he himself had worn.1
From perils manifold, with some small wealth Acquired by traffic 'mid the Indian Isles, To his paternal home he is returned, With a determined purpose to resume The life he had lived there; both for the sake Of many darling pleasures, and the love Which to an only brother he has borne In all his hardships, since that happy time When, whether it blew foul or fair, they two Were brother Shepherds on their native hills. -They were the last of all their race; and now, When Leonard had approached his home, his heart Failed in him; and, not venturing to enquire Tidings of one whom he so dearly loved, Towards the churchyard he had turned aside; That, as he knew in what particular spot His family were laid, he thence might learn If still his Brother lived, or to the file Another
grave was added.-He had found Another grave,-near which a full half-hour He had remained; but, as he gazed, there grew Such a confusion in his memory,
That he began to doubt; and hope was his That he had seen this heap of turf before,—— That it was not another grave; but one He had forgotten. He had lost his path, As up the vale, that afternoon, he walked
1 This description of the Calenture is sketched from an imperfect recollection of an admirable one in prose, by Mr. Gilbert, author of "The Hurricane."
Through fields which once had been well known to
And oh what joy the recollection now Sent to his heart! He lifted up his eyes, And, looking round, imagined that he saw Strange alteration wrought on every side Among the woods and fields, and that the rocks, And everlasting hills themselves were changed.
By this the Priest, who down the field had come, Unseen by Leonard, at the churchyard gate Stopped short,—and thence, at leisure, limb by limb Perused him with a gay complacency.
Ay, thought the Vicar, smiling to himself, 'Tis one of those who needs must leave the path Of the world's business to go wild alone :
His arms have a perpetual holiday;
The happy man will creep about the fields, Following his fancies by the hour, to bring Tears down his cheek, or solitary smiles Into his face, until the setting sun
Write Fool upon his forehead. Planted thus Beneath a shed that over-arched the gate Of this rude churchyard, till the stars appeared The good Man might have communed with himself, But that the Stranger, who had left the grave, Approached; he recognised the Priest at once, And, after greetings interchanged, and given By Leonard to the Vicar as to one Unknown to him, this dialogue ensued.
You live, Sir, in these dales, a quiet life : Your years make up one peaceful family;
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